Ridiculous
by Falonian
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a ridiculous man. Though, it was quite possible that he hadn't realised this himself, or mistaken the signs for something else. John Watson, however, had not. Fluffy Johnlock, you lot.


Sherlock Holmes was a ridiculous man. Though, it was quite possible that he hadn't realised this himself, or mistaken the signs for something else.

John Watson, however, had not. For once, he saw the evidence whereas the detective seemed to miss it all, no matter that it was right under his nose.

It was crystal clear, really, and it surprised John every time again that the other man was apparently incapable of putting two and two together, because if even John could see it, then how on Earth could the great Sherlock Holmes not do so?

It started with his appearance alone, the way he moved through London, coat flapping around him as he ran with long strides.

That ridiculous charcoal greatcoat, that seemed to fit him as if the model was made for him and him alone, accentuating his every move yet contributing to the air of mystery that surrounded him. Not to mention the ridiculous red buttonhole that just added to his extraordinary personality.

John wore it once, the coat, after he had fallen in the river Thames during a particularly exhausting chase. It was warm and way too big, and it made him feel ridiculous indeed, but it helped and so he went with it, even though the lapels reached beyond his ears.

And those lapels were, inevitably, the most ridiculous part of the whole piece of clothing; because what soul in the world would have a coat that accentuated their cheekbones, of all things?

Sherlock Holmes did, of course, having the most ridiculous cheekbones in existence. It should not be possible that something that for others was so insignificant, was so prominent in his face, making him look sharp and angelic but in a way, also soft. John would cup his face with his hands and slowly trace his thumbs over them, staring into ridiculous eyes that did not seem to hold their colour for more than a moment, shifting between mesmerizing green to icy blue, to cold grey and blinking silver. Eyes that registered everything that ever did or did not happen around their possessor, taking in the smallest details, those that everyone else missed.

There also was the way the ridiculous mass of dark curls would occasionally fall over the man's brow, half obscuring his eyes, tempting, challenging John to reach out a hand and brush them away. To ruffle them, to stroke them – which he often did, in strong comparison to the detective's hands that could come close to tearing the hair off his scalp, frustrated or angry.

Ridiculous hands, if one were to ask John, because it was nigh impossible how they did what they did.

One moment they could knock down a man who killed for a living, the next they'd play the most wonderful pieces, holding a bow and a violin in light grasp. They could handle things so delicately it had to be imagined, as large as they were. But whether it was chemicals or case evidence or John Watson himself, all was – mostly – handled with utmost care.

And yes, some more than others, quite.

The man also was ridiculously tall, despite what others said, because John Watson was, admittedly, only of average height – if not slightly smaller. It was at times a bit annoying, especially when John was unable to reach things the other man could simply pick up, or when he had to stand almost on his tippy toes in order to steal kisses.

But the warm sparks that came with those were most definitely worth the struggle.

The fact that the man was also very lean made him a perfect fit for button-downs and suits, all ridiculously expensive, ridiculously well-tailored. Not to forget the ridiculous dressing gowns. Though those, John was certain, he did not wear so much for the comfort they brought, as well as for the dramatic effect that mirrored the billowing of his coat.

With the suits came trousers, ever black, in which he liked to wrap his legs.

Legs that seemed to on for miles and could run so fast that John's short ones had difficulty keeping up. Legs that liked to hook themselves around John's waist when he was holding the detective against the door of their flat. Legs that often tangled themselves with John's at night and would not easily let him go in the morning.

Those legs were connected, obviously, to the man's arse. But it was truly the most ridiculous arse in existence, it had to be, the way it drove John mad at times. Especially when there were no clothes involved anymore at all and John would squeeze gently before letting his hands wander everywhere. After all, there were acres of pale creamy white skin to worship. Ridiculously soft skin, as if it did not belong to a man's body, but at the same time was so very different from a woman's skin. A skin covered in a ridiculous amount of scars, smaller and bigger, of which only John knew their exact whereabouts. He'd trace them, kiss them, connect them together to form a invisible net in which he ensnared the taller man.

A net to keep him safe, though it allowed him to run and chase and go into action if he wished to do so. But it would bind him to John forever, so that he always, always would return.

And the detective let him, made him replace the lines as often as possible, so they would never fade away, never be forgotten.

In those moment, intimate and laden with emotions, John liked to softly slide his lips over whatever body part closest to his mouth. Preferably Sherlock's mouth.

The mouth with the ridiculous, soft, cupid's bow lips and the ridiculously talented tongue.

At times, only thinking about that mouth would succeed in making John shiver. Which was ridiculous, but there was no way to stop it, and to be honest, John was glad for it.

However, the detective's mouth did not only feel incredible, the words that spilled from it often were so as well. They would never seize to amaze John, however others would rather Sherlock shut up.

In their defence, it was undeniably true that not all that emerged was tactful or compassionate or in any way nice. Not seldom it was the exact opposite.

But not all was insulting, far from it, luckily. And even if it was, no doubt it would be clever.

Because Sherlock Holmes was clever, ridiculously so.

It was beyond John how the man knew so many things and could remember them – or chose to forget them, for that matter. He seemed to know everything about any subject in the world and could dredge up any information he deemed necessary from the depths of his mind. It was quite something to see him do so frantically and then connect everything together to solve puzzles – or cases.

But John's favourite thing was the deducing. Of course it was. Because if something made Sherlock Holmes to who he was, it would be that.

It was astonishing, the way he could tell everything there was to know about anyone without so much as a glance. And it was a turn-on, but John would never admit to that. It was ridiculous.

He knew for sure that the detective knew perfectly how his inexplicable skills made John feel though.

Though instead of saying it out loud to show that he did, in fact, know, Sherlock had stored it somewhere safe.

Somewhere safe meaning his mind, or rather, his Mind Palace.

Oh yes, it was a ridiculous name and the concept was, too. John would be lying if he were to say that he didn't think it was incredible as well though.

Truly, it was pretty amazing to see the man slowly retreat into himself, unaware of everything around him. It was also a bit frightening, because even though Sherlock had explained it, John was unable to grasp the concept completely, and it was strange that a person was able to do such a thing.

Fully understand how people could go to places that did not exist in this world in the way Sherlock did, John would probably never do.

It didn't matter though, because Sherlock did, and John had no big fears anymore. He was absolutely certain that the detective would always come back to him, no matter how long he wandered, say, somewhere else.

After all, he'd always done exactly that.

There were other things in that ridiculous brain of his John would never get. For example the experiments. No week would go by without limbs in the freezer, organs in the microwave or small explosions at the kitchen table. Not to mention the occasional observations of, well, some dangerous living creature, or a strange plant, or other people. Or _things_.

None of the them ever made any sense or were relevant to anything, but John supposed that was okay. At least they busied the detective. Anything to keep him from getting bored.

'Bored' was the foulest of moods when it came to Sherlock Holmes. That was ridiculous, too. To most people, 'angry' or 'grumpy' would be their worst form. Of course the great detective had to be an exception to that rule, too.

He would do just about anything when bored, only to keep him from staying bored. Really, there were too many things to list, other than that most of the them were either absolutely weird or downright lethal.

And complain. He did that a lot too, until there would finally be a case again.

It was ridiculous how his mood and behaviour could switch then. From annoyed – and annoying – and frustrated to exhilarated and full of energy. Too much energy, if you'd ask John. The man wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, wouldn't do anything else but try and solve the case.

Then when he did, came another ridiculous switch. Practically, he'd become a cat of sorts. Languid, lazy, not willing to do anything at all. He'd move around the house all day in his dressing gown, slouch on the sofa, make John do the grocery shopping – though he did that all the time – until he got bored again.

John liked to be around Sherlock at any time, but those moments were among his favourites. Those were the moments he could sit on the couch next to Sherlock, and the detective would curl up against him, hide his face in John's jumper and promptly fall asleep, mumbling John's name. John would maneuver them so that they'd both sleep comfortably, snuggled up next to each other.

He'd look at Sherlock's relaxed form and smile softly, stroking his hair and cheek before moving to his hand to twine their fingers together. Then he'd slowly drift away, satisfied with the feeling of Sherlock's golden ring against his.

Sherlock Holmes was a ridiculous man.

But to John Watson, he was also the most ridiculous, loveable husband there could ever exist.


End file.
